Unnatural
by Retro63
Summary: Holmes is called to investigate an important but rather simple case of abduction. Yet the closer he gets to the truth, the more danger he finds himself in. Is the great Sherlock Holmes really out of his depth?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to… other people._

Chapter One - The Morning at 221B

It was mid morning in London and a decidedly average morning at that. Doctor John Watson sat, as was his custom and the custom of most gentlemen, with a newspaper, engrossed in current affairs. Although never one to shy away from excitement and adventure, the doctor had to admit that he enjoyed these calm relaxing moments and was heartened by the recent lack of crimes; a rarity in these dark and depressing times. The light smile that graced his lips gave him a tranquil, peaceful expression. Nothing but contentment.

Yet as he looked over his morning paper at his companion sitting across from him the smile faltered. It was no secret to Watson that, while he himself took pleasure in these quiet periods, the tedium of languishing idle at home was enough to drive his enigmatic friend to madness. From the soft, melancholy expression on his face right at that moment, Watson reasoned that madness was not far away.

The paper forgotten, the doctor continued to covertly watch his friend. Watson had to admit that, for a man in his mid thirties his friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was aging better than he had expected. Although by no means youthful in appearance he had a certain vitality about him that for all his medical training, Watson could not explain. His skin was smooth, if a little too pale for the doctor's liking and he had keen sharp eyes that shone brightly, especially when in hot pursuit of some master criminal. Holmes's body was lean and agile and, despite his abuse of it he had great strength and stamina, able to spring into action at any moment.

Yet the figure sitting opposite him at that moment was a mere ghost of his keen and athletic companion. As far from the champion boxer that he was as any victim of the infectious opium dens dotted around London. He sat hunched up in his armchair, his large feet resting on the seat and his knees tucked under his chin. Sharp and intelligent eyes looked dull and expressionless. No, today Mr Sherlock Holmes looked a great deal older than thirty four.

He hadn't moved for a good long while, and Watson had begun to suspect the work of the cocaine bottle.

At times like this his friend was prone to mood swings ranging from bouts of extreme melancholy to fits of childish temper. It was also at times like this that Watson had learned (the hard way) to remain silent. Holmes would not appreciate idle small talk.

So, feeling it was wise to leave Holmes to his bad mood, Watson went back to his paper, only to be startled when Holmes let out a sigh and stood suddenly, the armchair creaking violently as he hoisted his weight off it.

"Problems, Holmes?" Watson asked, as he decided to try his luck with conversation. Holmes turned towards him sharply but did not speak immediately. Contemplating his next words.

"I have begun to despair of the criminals in London," he said, that earlier sigh still lingering in his voice, making an unattractive whining sound. He took his pipe off the mantelpiece and filled it with tobacco.

Watson was inclined to agree with him, although for completely different reasons he suspected. For most, crime was a constant reminder of the weakness and ill nature of mankind. For Sherlock Holmes, it was a game and one he played with relish.

" I can see why an intelligent man would turn to crime," Holmes added in an almost offhand manner as he fell back into his seat and slumped down low, his long legs stretched out before him.

"Holmes!" Watson said indignantly, "that's an awful thing to say."

Watson's indignation raised a faint smile from Holmes.

"Calm yourself, Watson," Holmes replied soothingly, exercising his uncanny knack of making even the most patronising of pacifications sound comforting. "I was merely suggesting," he continued, smoke drifting out of his mouth and swirling through the still air, "that a man of intellect with no outlet for his talents must feel stifled…" He paused. Watson could see an increasingly familiar look of sadness creep over Holmes's features. "As I feel stifled."

Watson was at a loss for words, knowing that whatever pearls of wisdom he had to give would be of no comfort. This was a man tortured by his own intellect, an intellect that demands satisfaction and if it does not receive it then it plunges its owner into that black endless pit known as depression. As much as Watson admired Holmes, he could say honestly that he did not envy him one bit.

Silence passed for a few moments, Holmes wallowing quietly in his own self pity while he drew on his favourite pipe, filling the air with its noxious fumes. Watson could only look on and pray for an end to his companion's black mood, even if it meant shattering the tranquil peace he had found for himself.

"We have a visitor," Holmes said randomly, his face never changing and his position in his chair never moving. Watson looked blankly at him, neither hearing nor seeing any evidence of a guest.

Yet sure enough the faint sound of the doorbell floated up the stairs to the room they were in and a few seconds later Mrs Hudson entered, a flicker of horror creeping onto her face as she surveyed the room, noting the strewn about newspapers and ash on the dark carpet. She was a woman of great patience and, despite her obvious age, youthful spirit. Her features were kind and gentle even when she was sternly talking down to Holmes, who was by far her most troublesome and her most exciting tenant. She would never let him know, but her fondness for Mr Sherlock Holmes was immense, and she was happy to put up with disorder and erratic moods. So long as he always paid the rent.

"You have a visitor Mr Holmes," she announced in that famous stern tone signalling her disapproval, probably with the state of the room or the smell of noxious tobacco, "a gentleman and a lady, Captain and Mrs Harris."

"The day improves, Watson," Holmes announced drawing on the remains of the burning tobacco.

"If you ask me," Mrs Hudson chipped in, not caring that nobody _had_ asked her, "I'd say they'd had a proper fright." She turned then to Watson, the more understanding of the two men and also a medical man, and continued. "She's as white as a sheet and she's so thin and frail, and he looks like a broken man..."

She had more to say but was cut short by Holmes who had suddenly risen from his chair and dropped his pipe noisily back onto the mantelpiece.

"Well show her in Mrs Hudson, show her in," he said with more impatience than the elderly landlady deserved. It earned him a disapproving glare from her but she left obediently to fetch the mysterious visitors.

In a whirl of clothing and warm water Holmes changed from the gaunt thin depressive figure he had been all morning, to the sharp intelligent gentlemen consulting detective. There was in his face a softer, albeit shallow geniality, which he often adopted when greeting clients. It was quite remarkable, this chameleon-like ability and no matter how many times Watson saw it he was always surprised.

A few seconds later the door opened and in stepped a man, tall with thick dark hair that was swept back from his face. He was slightly tanned and his face was smooth and clean shaven save for a small moustache that Watson guessed was a fairly recent addition to his face. A lot of military men who reached command positions at an early age, grew moustaches to give them a more mature appearance.

"Captain Harris," Holmes greeted gently.

As Mrs Harris stepped over the threshold she looked in alarm at the state of the floor, which was still covered in all of the morning's newspapers. Watson looked at her apologetically and began to scoop them up, while Holmes glared at him.

"Mrs Harris," Holmes continued, "Please take a seat, for I observe that you have had a trying time recently."

As she sat on the edge of the settee Watson noted that her cheeks, which should have been rosy and plump at her age and on such a day, were sunken and ashen. Her eyes seemed dark and red rimmed from crying and her expression was rather distant. Although she was dishevelled it was clear that she had money as her clothes were made from the finest material, trimmed with expensive lace and of the style that only the most well to do and fashionable women wore. 'How's that for deduction, Mr Sherlock Holmes?' he thought to himself.

"Oh," she said with a sob lingering in the back of her throat, "I have, Mr Holmes, very much so." And the sob broke free and soon a few stray tears escaped and rolled down her pale cheeks. Holmes sat and leaned forward in his chair.

"Then, Mrs Harris, tell me your troubles and I will see how I can help you," Holmes said in his softest voice and the calming effect was almost instantaneous. Watson was always surprised by his cold, calculating companion's capacity for kindness and remained in awe of his skill for putting people at their ease. Sometimes Watson wondered what success Holmes would have as a suitor and tried to picture how he would set about romancing a young lady. The thought unnerved him so he chose not to contemplate it anymore.

"Mr Holmes," Captain Harris spoke up, sitting next to his wife on the settee, "I have been away at sea for the past five months and have been separated from my family. Little did I know that when I returned home, I would be greeted by such a tragedy."

"Please," Holmes said, trying to remain patient with the grief stricken couple but failing miserably, "state your problem."

"Well," Mrs Harris spoke up, her voice still thick from holding back tears, "it all began last month."


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Chapter Two - Mrs Harris's Story

"Mummy, the house in wonderful," said a cheerful young boy as he ran full speed up the garden towards his mother, Charlotte Harris. His shoes crunched on the gravel on the path and he kicked up a fair amount of dust, which clung to the black leather. She smiled warmly as she saw the dirty state he had got into already; and they had only been there a few minutes. Dust and grass covered not just his shoes, but his new jacket and his pale, thin cheeks.

"Look at you, James" she laughed at him, brushing the dead grass and dusty dried mud off his jacket fondly, "such a mess."

He was a small child and had been unwell with a severe illness that his doctors could find no cause for. He had been ill for so long, mostly bed ridden and had rarely been in the sun over the past three years, but he was getting better and stronger every day, with the help of Millicent, his nanny. His skin was still far too pale to look healthy but Mrs Harris had no doubt that the a few trips to the beach, to breathe in the fresh salt air would help him. His once lifeless dark brown hair seemed thicker and shinier and his blue eyes were much brighter and so full of life. She was starting to see his father's looks in him and no doubt when he was back to full health he would bare even more resemblance, for Robert was a well built, active man.

As James broke free again and ran off in the direction of the house, Charlotte looked up at her new home. The ivy covered walls brought back memories of childhood and the wonderfully kept garden made her nostalgic. She had been upset by the death of her uncle, but was glad that he'd left her the house here in Brighton, after all she had loved it so much as a child when she would visit during the long hot summers of childhood. She would run around the gardens just as her son James was doing now and she remembered sleeping in her large bedroom, in a king sized bed with the softest, finest pure cotton sheets, dreaming of her own house like this, with a handsome husband and children.

It was a shame that Robert could not be with her at that moment, the moment that her childish dreams came true.

"Are we going to live here forever?" came a voice from beside Mrs Harris that shattered her reverie. It was the voice of her sixteen year old daughter Anna, who, far from her thin, gaunt younger brother was a healthy, curvy girl with an attractive face and thick, luxurious brown hair. Mrs Harris had become slightly jealous of her of late. While her looks were beginning to fade, her hair greying and wrinkles gathering at her eyes, her daughter was developing into the most beautiful young woman.

"Yes, my uncle wished me to live here." Mrs Harris noted that Anna seemed a little downhearted. "Don't you think the house is beautiful?" she asked, tucking a stray lock of Anna's hair behind her ear.

"Oh, yes mother," she replied, smiling up at her, "yes, definitely. I am sure I will grow to love the place." There was another pause and she seemed to be contemplating something serious. After a few moments, "I just wish father was here."

"Oh, he'll be home soon enough," Mrs Harris said soothingly, "don't worry."

The first few weeks were hectic; moving the Harris' possessions into the vast manor house that had become their new home was an arduous task. Mrs Harris and her daughter Anna found that this task took up most of their time and that time had flown by.

The house was an enormous, impressive stone structure with beautifully kept gardens and grounds. There were large oak trees on the estate, hundreds of years old that cast massive shadows over the house as the sun dipped behind them. Inside, the rooms were large and the ceilings high, crammed full of Morrison family heirlooms; antique sideboards, paintings and eccentric foreign trinkets from Major Harold Morrison's campaigns.

"Just when I feel like I've been in all the rooms, I wander into another new one," Anna joked as she sat down with her cup of afternoon tea.

"I know what you mean," her mother agreed as she poured her own cup. "Still, we'll settle down." After a moment she added, "there is a room down the corridor that would make a very good music room."

Her daughter's eyes lit up for the first time since they had left London. "Is there a piano?" When her mother nodded Anna beamed, displaying perfect white teeth.

"I'll teach you to play as soon as we've finished moving everything in," Mrs Harris said.

Anna looked crestfallen and slumped back in her chair in a most unladylike fashion. Mrs Harris tutted at her and gave her a stern look. "I've told you not to sit like that Anna. That isn't how young ladies sit."

Anna rolled her eyes but obeyed her mother, sitting up rigid and straight backed, an exaggerated impersonation of her mother's own schooled posture.

"Would Her Majesty approve of this?" she asked flippantly and her mother frowned disapprovingly at her. Anna just laughed impishly, her light blue eyes twinkling with her own mischief.

Charlotte Harris was beginning to worry that her daughter was completely uninterested in becoming a proper lady. She certainly wasn't interested in any of those pursuits that kept her mother occupied and in fact she actively avoided learning needlework. Music was the only thing young Anna had taken any interest in and Charlotte Harris was hopeful that she would soon make a pianist out of her daughter. She did worry that with no accomplishments, Anna would find it difficult to find a husband, but this was another thing which she had never shown any interest in. Mrs Harris despaired.

Just as Mrs Harris was about to admonish her daughter for not taking her posture seriously the doorbell rang out loudly in the quiet house and a few moments later, Simmons, their maid was announcing Sir Edward and Lady Wells; their new neighbours.

The couple that were shown in could best be described as striking. He was an imposing, tall 

man with a large aquiline nose and sharp black eyes behind dark bushy eyebrows. He was well tanned, the skin on his face tough and leathery and he had stern, thin lips. His wife, Lady Eleanor Wells was extremely beautiful, with soft skin and dark blonde hair, but she had the most inscrutable expression. Her light blue eyes seemed at times far away as if her mind occupied a world of its own, but then she would give Mrs Harris the most penetrating look that a less logical and grounded mind may believe she was capable of reading her mind.

Feeling oddly nervous, Mrs Harris introduced herself and her daughter and set about making them cups of tea. She noted that Anna was slumping in her chair again and was trying to give her a warning look, but Anna was not paying attention, instead she was staring at Lady Wells.

"I was very sorry to hear about the Major," Lady Wells said as she watched Mrs Harris' movements with sharp, alert eyes, tea cup in her slim white hand, "he and Edward had become such good friends." She sat opposite Mrs Harris and stirred her tea with the silver spoon, each movement calculated and precise.

"Oh, I'm sorry Sir Edward, I didn't realise. I didn't see you at his funeral."

"I find funeral's very…upsetting," Sir Edward replied, his voice a gruff baritone that sounded like silk being snagged on a jagged rock. He said no more and Mrs Harris did not ask him to elaborate.

Silence fell heavy between them and they sipped their tea lightly. Over the rim of her tea cup Lady Wells noticed Anna, as if for the first time. Her blue eyes fixed on the young girl and she placed her cup down on the table before her.

"And how old are you?" she asked, her tone a little impolite and more than a little patronising.

"I was sixteen three weeks ago," Anna replied before her mother could answer for her, as she was want to do. She noticed her mother glaring at her in her peripheral vision but she again chose to ignore her.

"A young lady now," Lady Wells said. "My daughter hasn't made any friends here yet. I'm sure you two would have a lot in common."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it Anna?" Mrs Harris asked but her daughter rolled her eyes in a way that made Mrs Harris blush in embarrassment. She gave her another look that said _"not in front of guests!"_

Lady Wells' mind seemed to drift away from the conversation as her eyes went dull and surveyed the vast day room. It was well lit thanks to the large patio window, where the sun was streaming through. It was beautiful but typical, with plants and comfortable furniture and a few of the Indian trinkets that Major Morrison had been so proud of.

"Charming room," she said after a few minutes, then turned to Anna. "I don't suppose you're interested in learning the piano?" Anna sat a little straighter, her posture finally pleasing her mother and smiled at the older woman. "It's just," Lady Wells continued, "my daughter Nancy wants to learn and I promised I would teach her. I was wondering if you would like to join us?"

"Oh, I was going…" started Mrs Harris but her daughter cut her off mid sentence.

"I would be honoured," Anna replied and Lady Wells smiled at her, her eyes more penetrating than ever. The two of them seemed to look into each others' eyes for a fraction longer than was considered polite, but Anna Harris held the older woman's gaze intently, not backing down

"Splendid," Lady Wells said softly with a polite smile finally looking away from Anna and down at her tea cup. "Splendid."

Through the rest of the day Mrs Harris and her daughter did not talk to each other. Anna was content to disappear into the various rooms of the house, pulling open drawers and cupboards to see what had been left there. Mrs Harris on the other hand felt let down by her daughter. She had believed that teaching Anna the piano would bring them closer together. They had been drifting apart ever since her husband left for his tour of duty and slowly they had become strangers to each other, until that day when Charlotte Harris realised that her daughter was no longer a child. It had come as a shock to her that her little girl was coming of age, growing into a young woman who was starting to think of her future in serious terms. Girls were meant to learn how to become ladies from their mothers and it had always been her greatest wish that Anna would learn life's lessons from her. Charlotte Harris could not help finding her daughter a bit of a disappointment in that area, as she had never paid any attention to these life lessons.

She felt betrayed that her daughter would now prefer to spend time with a complete stranger and had turned down an offer of her own mother's help.

"You are the one who is always telling me to meet new people," Anna said over dinner, when her mother finally brought the subject up. "This is the perfect opportunity."

Charlotte Harris sighed. She had said that, but she did not like her own words being used against her and she was beginning to think that Anna was too clever for her own good.

"All right," she replied, "I understand that, but I had thought it could be something we could do together. We've been drifting apart Anna."

"I know," Clara said, looking down, pushing her food about her plate with her fork.

"Don't do that darling," Mrs Harris said, halting her daughters hand with her own. Anna sighed, threw down her fork and sat back with her arms folded across her chest. "And don't sulk."

"Don't do this, don't do that," Anna said, mocking her mother's well spoken, clipped tones. "And you wonder why I don't wish to spend any time with you."

"Anna," Mrs Harris admonished. Her daughter's words stung.

"At least when father's here you're fussing around him and not bullying me about."

Young James sat very quietly. He hadn't spent much time eating with the rest of his family as he had been ill in bed for nearly three years, but in these past few months he had felt well enough to be up until dinnertime. Yet since his father had left there had either been tense silence or there had been harsh, thoughtless words bandied around by his mother and sister. At times like these he longed for the comfortable silence of his sick bed.

"That is a horrible thing to say," Charlotte Harris said, desperately trying not to raise her voice.

"You want me to be just like you, but I'm not interested in wasting my time sewing and having children," Anna said, her voice raised and her cheeks flushed from her outpouring of feelings. "I don't want to be like you mother."

And with that she got up from the table and ran straight to her new bedroom.

There had been no real discussion about the argument, although mother and daughter had started to talk again, albeit in a strained and often frosty manner. They spent the next few weeks drifting past each other, like strangers in the street, nodding hello politely. Meals were silent and at afternoon tea Mrs Harris could either be found alone or having a stiff, halting conversation with a daughter she no longer recognised.

On one Friday Anna Harris happily left the house to travel to Lady Wells' house half a mile away. When she left, the afternoon sun was high and yellow in the sky, casting few shadows and leaving almost no shade. The day went on and the sunlight turned orange as it sank from view behind the landscape, eventually disappearing and sending the world into constant shadow.

Anna Harris did not return,

In the early stages of panic Charlotte Harris left her son in the care of the servants and went to the Wellses' house to look for her daughter. Merely believing her daughter was being wilful and disobedient she stood in the doorway of the house and asked for her daughter to be sent home immediately.

"I'm sorry Madame," said an elderly, tall butler who stood poker straight, "Miss Anna has not been here today."

"Don't be silly, she left for this house at half past twelve."

Alerted by Mrs Harris' high, worried tone, Lady Wells came to the door.

"Why, Mrs Harris, whatever is the matter?" she asked with a cool, calm voice.

"Anna hasn't come home, I thought she was here," Mrs Harris explained, her extremities starting to go numb as a wilder form of panic set in.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Lady Wells continued, "but she has not been here today. I was expecting her but when she didn't attend I thought she may have been taken ill. I was planning to visit tomorrow to see if she was all right."

Charlotte Harris suddenly felt ill and cold all over like she had been dropped in ice water and the last thing she remembered was the image Lady Wells going in and out of focus before the world went pitch black.

_AN: I hope this reads alright so far. I am rather new to writing fanfiction._


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Chapter Three - On the Case

There was a tense moment of silence in 221b Baker Street as Mrs Harris finished her story. She had collapsed finally into the tears that had been threatening to spill since she entered. Captain Harris held her hand firmly to try and comfort her, but her misery and her guilt meant that she would not be consoled.

"The police have been informed," Captain Harris said, taking over the narrative from his wife, "but they are at a loss and my wife and I are beginning to despair."

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, which had been closed as he sat back in his armchair. He fixed his gaze on Mrs Harris, who was beginning to regain her composure and he watched her intently for a few moments before he turned his grey eyes on Captain Harris.

"How long have you been back in England, Captain?" he asked.

"Since Sunday," he replied, "I came home to find my house crawling with police and my wife and son in hysterics." His voice cracked but he knew better than to lose control of his emotions in front of anyone, let alone to complete strangers. "You must help us Mr Holmes. We are desperate."

"How did your uncle die, Mrs Harris?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, poor man, his heart was weak. He died of a heart attack during dinner," she replied with tears still sparkling in her eyes.

"Was he dining alone?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, I believe so. The servants would be able to answer your questions." Mrs Harris pulled out a pristine handkerchief and dabbed delicately at her eyes, desperate not to smudge her make-up.

"And how long had he been back from India?"

"Only a few years. He was still quite young really, but his bad heart forced him out of the army. I'm afraid I'm not too sure about the exact length of time."

"And where was he stationed?" Holmes continued, much to Mrs Harris' confusion.

"Er, Bengal I think. They had trouble with rebels in that area and his regiment were sent to protect British interests."

Sherlock Holmes watched the couple for a few moments more then he took a deep breath and stood up before them. He pulled himself up to his full height.

"I will of course, give this case my undivided attention," he announced. They looked up at him with relief written all over their ashen faces.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," Captain Harris said, as he stood and shook Holmes' hand. "I will rest easier knowing that you are on the case."

With a further promise to travel to their home in Brighton the next afternoon, Sherlock Holmes bid the couple farewell and they left with renewed hope.

Watson looked solemnly at his companion, who leant on the mantelpiece, his face a picture of concentration.

"Bad business, Holmes," Watson said rather pointlessly. "The girl must have been kidnapped on her way to the Sir Edward's house."

Holmes turned to him. "Have you heard of Sir Edward Wells before?" he asked.

Watson thought for a moment then replied, "The name does seem familiar, now that you come to mention it."

Holmes crossed the room to his index books and took out the W volume. He flicked through the pages and mumbled the names as he searched until he came to the one in question.

"_Sir Edward and Lady Wells,"_ he read, skipping through the first few lines, _"married March 1858, moved to India where Sir Edward managed a tea garden in Darjeeling."_

"India again," Watson remarked.

"Yes, and Bengal too, it is just possible that Major Morrison and Sir Edward knew of each other."

"I know someone else who was stationed in Bengal," Watson stated conversationally as he pocketed his notebook and sat on the settee that the Harrises had previously occupied. "When I was in Afghanistan I treated a Lieutenant George Grey for gunshot wounds. Anyway, I got to be rather good friends with him but then I was invalided back home and he was promoted to Captain and was transferred to Bengal."

"Where is he now?" Holmes asked, suddenly interested in Watson's army tales.

"I believe he's back in England," Watson replied, lighting a cigarette and sitting back to relax.

"Do you think he would talk to you now?" Holmes inquired.

"Yes, I'm sure he would, if you think it's important," Watson replied, uncertain as to Holmes' reason for asking.

"My dear chap!" Holmes exclaimed, standing and pulling Watson out of his comfortable position on the settee, "I believe it is of the utmost importance. You must send a telegram to Captain Grey at once and ask if you can see him," Holmes continued in a booming voice as he ushered Watson to the desk to write his telegram.

"Well, of course Holmes," Watson agreed, a little flustered by this sudden activity. "But what do I need to see him about?"

The next morning Watson found himself at the home of his old friend Captain Grey. His house was small but luxuriously furnished, showing the Captain to be a man of excellent taste. Grey himself looked very well and just as Watson remembered him. He was still in good shape, his shoulders broad and square and his face still held the same youthful good looks, save for a few wrinkles around his dark eyes.

"My dear, Watson, how good to see you," he said as he shook Watson's hand vigorously with a strong, firm grip. "How have you been keeping?"

George Grey had always been dark skinned, being of Italian decent on his mother's side, but the Indian sun had darkened it further and that coupled with his jet black hair which still had not greyed, gave him a rather mysterious exotic appearance.

"Very well thank you," Watson replied politely and followed the Captain into his study, which was rather dark but nevertheless a comfortable room.

"Yes, I've heard what you've been up too," said Grey with a sly smile as he poured two glasses of whiskey. Before Watson had time to tell the older man that it was a little too early in the day for him to be drinking, the glass was thrust into his hands, leaving him no option but accept the drink politely. "I had no idea life outside the army could be so exciting." He laughed and sat in his chair after he took a large swig of whiskey.

"Yes, my work with Holmes certainly stops me going mad from boredom," Watson replied as he sat in the chair opposite Captain Grey and put his whiskey on the table, untouched. "And it's on that business that I've come to see you today," he continued.

Captain Grey's large black eyebrows shot up in surprise and he leaned forward in anticipation of what his old friend was going to reveal to him. "Oh?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes, we're on a case...of some delicacy you understand," Watson answered cautiously, concerned that he would reveal too much of this tragic case. "It concerns a...young girl."

Watson needed to say no more. Humans were naturally cautious when it came to young people, and any crime against them was widely considered to be a heinous crime indeed. Unnatural even.

"I understand," Grey answered.

"When you were in India, George, did you serve under a Major Morrison?" he asked, jumping straight in with a pertinent question. Grey smiled with an expression of fond remembrance on his handsome face.

"Good Lord, Major Morrison," he said with affection ringing clear in his voice. "Yes, indeed, fine CO, Major Morrison and very good at Bridge. I was very sad to read about his 

death."

"Do you know if he knew Sir Edward Wells?"

Captain Grey's smile faltered as he heard Wells' name mentioned. He seemed to pale visibly in front of Watson's eyes and the doctor watched as he downed the rest of whiskey in one go.

"Oh yes, John," Grey replied after swallowing the bitter liquid. "We all knew of Sir Edward, and his wife."

"Something bad?" Watson question. Captain Grey laughed mirthlessly, stood and crossed the room to his drinks cabinet.

"We were only stationed there to try and control the rebels, make sure they didn't sabotage the plantations and such," Grey said as he poured another unhealthy dose of whiskey into his tumbler. "While we were there three native girls went missing. Command were worried that suspicion might fall on the regiment and it might spark another rebellion so we were ordered to investigate, to see if we could defuse the situation." He turned to face Watson and leant back on the cabinet, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass. "We had no leads though and eventually the poor girls were found in the river, sliced up, mutilated and bloated by the water; horrible sight."

Watson felt his throat tighten and he swallowed to try and relieve it. "Were there any suspects?" Watson asked, wondering how this linked to Sir Edward Wells.

"No," Grey answered sadly, "not at first. If ever anyone was in need of your friend Mr Holmes it was Major Morrison. The sight of those young girls made him mad. He had a heart of gold. Anyway, we all knew about Sir Edward and his wife. The young daughters of the families living out there were very taken with Lady Wells and she was considered a good influence, being from a good family and all. So they would spend a lot of time with them back at their home in Darjeeling." Captain Grey paused to gather his thoughts and took a small sip of whiskey. "One day, one of Sir Edward's workers, a migrant worker from Nepal, came to us, saying he had seen the missing native girls at Sir Edward's house through one of the windows. He said one of the girls looked straight at him and pleaded with her eyes for his help."

"He was suggesting that Sir Edward murdered these girls?" Watson asked incredulously.

"Yes, and we believed him. I've never seen an Indian man so pale, Watson. Major Morrison went up there to ask some questions and I interviewed a few of the other workers. They were terrified of Sir Edward, especially the women and the men were convinced that he was using the young British women for...immoral purposes if you understand me."

Yes, Watson did understand. He gave in and finally took a gulp of the whiskey he'd been given, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"What happened?" Watson asked.

"We were told by command that we were to proceed no further with the investigation and concentrate on the task we'd been set. The worker who came to us mysteriously disappeared 

and a few weeks later Sir Edward and his wife left India."

"A cover up?" Watson asked rhetorically. "Are you sure he was guilty?"

"Just to look at him, Watson, and to see the fear in those people's eyes," Grey admitted and downed the rest of his second glass of whiskey. "Sir Edward has friends in high places, friends who hadn't had to drag those poor girls out of the river."

There was a moment of silence almost in respect to the memories of the Indian girls who had who's suffering had been ignored.

"I'm sorry to bring all this back up, George," Watson said softly then finished the rest of his whiskey. "You said that they were popular with the other British families. I expect their daughter made friends with many of the girls her age."

Grey looked at him in confusion. "No, they never had a daughter. There was just the two of them. Although when they left India two of the older girls, who had both come of age went with them."

"Went with them!" Watson exclaimed, his brow furrowed in confusion. Then a thought struck him as he remember Mrs Harris' story and he looked up at his old friend. "Was one of them called Nancy by any chance?"

"Yes, Nancy Harrington. Beautiful girl." Grey tilted his head and gave Watson a questioning look. "Why do you ask?"

"I think she may be connected with the case," Watson answered vaguely. _So that girl wasn't their daughter._ "Listen George, can you tell me everything you know about Sir Edward and his wife?"

"I'll certainly try," he answered calmly, but Watson noticed that he was pouring another drink. "If you think it will help I will certainly try."

"It will, George. Thank you," Watson replied.

_What on Earth had he and Holmes stumbled into?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Chapter Four – Holmes and the Official Force

Holmes travelled down to Brighton on the train and arrived just after nine o'clock. As he stepped out onto the platform he noticed the familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade at the other end, talking to a young constable. He moved quickly, trying to avoid being recognised but the inspector had keener eyes than Holmes would give him credit for and he spotted him almost instantly.

"Mr Holmes!" he called across the noisy platform at him. Holmes sighed to himself then nodded in recognition and walked up to meet him. The man was a good deal shorter than him yet what he lacked in height he more than made up for in presence. At first glance Lestrade looked rather unthreatening and unassuming, but there was bold intensity in his dark eyes and he kept himself tensed, ready to spring into action. He was a man of great energy.

_He'd make an excellent detective if he wasn't such a fool,_ Holmes thought with malicious amusement.

"Inspector," he greeted nonchalantly.

"Mr Holmes," Lestrade returned, "Mrs Harris informed me that she'd been to see you." As though to demonstrate he took a telegram from his breast pocket and waved it casually.

"I'm rather surprised to see you this far from London, Lestrade," Holmes said as they walked out of the train station together, Holmes taking long strides, the inspector picking up his pace to keep up with him.

"Yes, well, to be honest with Mr Holmes I'm a little surprised myself. I was just told by the Chief Inspector to help out the local police on this disappearance case. The local police don't have the resources of Scotland Yard," Lestrade announced proudly.

"That must be the reason then," Holmes said, although he was not convinced that was the reason. To Lestrade's credit, Holmes didn't think he believed it either.

_Much more likely that the Chief Inspector is nervous about the reputation of Sir Edward and his wife and preferred to have a discreet Scotland Yarder rather than a local man,_ Holmes reasoned.

They took a cab to the Harrises' home together.

"The local police are swamped at the moment," Lestrade continued as the cab rattled down the road. "Apparently there have been three other disappearances in the last week."

"Other disappearances?" Holmes asked sharply. "Who are these other people?"

Lestrade pulled out his pocket notebook and flicked through the pages. "Er, a Lucy Everidge, a maid who works for a Mr John Harvey, a shop girl by the name of Ethel Parkinson and Jane Carr, a cleaner."

"All working class girls," Holmes announced thoughtfully to himself. "Is there any connection between them?" he asked Lestrade.

"Well, Parkinson and Carr were friends, but there seems to be no connection with the other girl, well, none that the local police could find," the inspector answered putting his notebook away, "but it can't be a coincidence! Four disappearances in less than a week! There must be a common factor that links all these girls."

"Quite right, Lestrade," Holmes answered. _How oddly perceptive of you inspector,_ was his silent thought.

When they arrived at their destination, Holmes was immediately struck by how grand and elegant the Harris' house was. Whatever the link between Anna Harris and these other missing girls was, it certainly wasn't station as the Harrises were evidently very well off.

Mrs Harris ran out to greet them. Holmes noticed another woman standing by the front door and he recognised her from Mrs Harris' description. It was Lady Wells, standing there, watching the three of them intently. She certainly was beautiful, but there was something wrong about her that Holmes couldn't quite put his finger on. Beauty wasn't meant to send cold shivers down the spine.

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Harris said breathlessly, "I'm glad that you could come."

"I said I would, Mrs Harris," Holmes replied, trying not to laugh at the indignant expression on Lestrade's face as he was ignored. "Mrs Harris, this is Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard."

Lestrade removed his hat politely. "Mrs Harris," he greeted.

"Oh, inspector, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," she said. Holmes bit hard on the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from laughing out loud. He feared that Lestrade distrusted him enough without aggravating him further.

While Mrs Harris retold her story to the inspector, Holmes snuck away to the back of the house, where the servants were getting on with their day to day work. He found the butler handing the cook the menu for lunch.

He was a stout man with a serious looking face but healthy complexion. His greying hair was slicked down and his black suit was immaculate. The cook was a thin woman with a rather 

pale gaunt face and sunken grey eyes. She looked unwell actually, probably shaken by all the recent bad news.

Holmes introduced himself and both servants expressed their relief that he had agreed to take the case on.

"Did you both work for the old Major?" Holmes asked.

"Yes sir," the butler answered in a deep, clear voice, "a very generous employer."

"It was terrible when he died," the cook added, her grey eyes filled with sadness. "And it was so unexpected."

Holmes regarded them with interest. "I thought Major Morrison had a weak heart."

"Oh yes, sir," the butler replied, stroking his broad chin with a thick hand, "but he was very careful, sir. He was the sort to look after himself, took the doctor's advice very seriously."

"That's right, sir," the cook piped up, "he gave me a great long list of all the foods the doctor told him to cut down on."

"And he'd cut out smoking and drinking," the butler announced. "It cut down the household bill considerably."

Holmes paused whilst his brain digested this interesting and intriguing new information, then he continued his questioning.

"I understand that Major Morrison was very good friends with Sir Edward Wells and his wife."

The butler looked puzzled for a moment then replied, "I wouldn't say friends. More, acquaintances really. It's not really any of my business, sir, but I'd say there was a good bit o' tension between them. Although I don't know why, the master was a kind and generous man."

"The loss must have been a heavy one," Holmes said, feigning sympathy. He watched their reaction carefully. The cook nodded solemnly in agreement and looked down at the parquet floor.

"Young Mary took it the hardest," the cook said.

"Mary?" Holmes inquired, keeping his tone casual, not wanting it to appear of any real importance.

"The scullery maid, sir," the butler answered. "She left soon after the master's death."

"She wasn't really suited to domestic service anyway," the cook inserted. "I don't think she was brought up to be a worker. I always suspected that she came from a higher station."

"What made you think that?"

"Well she spoke posh," the woman replied. "Poor thing. Sometimes when rich families lose their money the young'uns have to get jobs."

Holmes smiled gratefully at the two servants, bowed politely, thanked them for their help and then left to find Lestrade. He wanted more information about those other missing girls.

Lestrade had agreed to give Holmes the details on the missing girls as long as he could go with him to interview the friends and family. When faced with such a situation Holmes had had to agree but had done so grudgingly.

"What did you make of Lady Wells?" Holmes asked the inspector as they travelled into the village together. The inspector shuddered.

"Well, very beautiful," he said hesitantly.

"But?" Holmes prompted, sensing the pause in Lestrade's sentence.

"But, she's a bit..." he struggled to find the right words. "Well she's a bit scary actually."

Holmes couldn't control the torrent of laughter that burst forth from him. He had seen Lestrade face down some of London's worst criminals and not even flinch. Lady Wells must be a frightening and formidable woman indeed.

"Lucy was a very good worker," John Harvey, the retired solicitor said. "She was always punctual and tidy and I've never had any complaints with her work."

"Did she have any friends in the village?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, I really wouldn't know." Then John Harvey thought about the question for few minutes. Holmes watched as the man's eyes seemed to light up as a thought occurred to him. "Wait a minute, there was a girl recently who Lucy had been talking to. I overheard her one evening talking to my cook about her. Young girl, Mary I think her name was."

Holmes exclaimed loudly, "hah!" startling Lestrade and the old solicitor.

Mrs Carr was an elderly frail woman who was unable to work and was totally reliant on her young daughter Jane. She lay on the settee in the living room which had become her bedroom and she was joined by a tall, well built young man.

"Young Carl here has been looking out for me since Jane..." she broke off with a sob.

"You're Carl Smith. You are a friend of Miss Carr and Miss Parkinson's?" Lestrade asked the handsome, sandy haired young man sat beside poor Mrs Carr.

"Ethel and me was walking out together," he clarified, "her and Jane have been friends since they was little."

"Think very carefully, Mr Smith," Holmes said in a low voice as he leaned toward the young man, "had Miss Carr and Miss Parkinson been spending a lot of time with a woman called Mary?"

Carl Smith looked up at the older man in surprise. "Yes, sir," he confirmed in a quiet whisper, "they met her recently. She'd said she was new to the village and didn't know anyone. Ethel and Jane were friendly and they liked helping people out."

"There's our connection, Lestrade," Holmes said, his eyes glittering with excitement as they stepped out of Mrs Carr's house and into the bright sunlight.

"Well, yes, this woman called Mary," Lestrade replied in an exasperated tone. "But who is she?"

"She worked for Major Morrison before he died."

"Mrs Harris' uncle?" Lestrade began to see the hint of a pattern in his brain but the entire picture was still obscured. Holmes watched as he frowned, wondering if such hard thinking was giving him a headache.

"Yes, but she left a few days after the Major passed away," Holmes explained further. Holmes stopped to examine his pocket watch. If he hurried he would just be in time for the next train back to London, where he was certain Watson would have some interesting news for him. He turned to the inspector. "Now Lestrade, I have to leave for London."

"But Mr Holmes!" Lestrade called after him, "what conclusions have you drawn from all this?"

Holmes felt his shoulders drop as another sigh escaped him. _You can be so tiresome._ "Ah, Lestrade," Holmes replied, "you follow your line and I'll follow mine. Come to Baker Street if you have any further information."

Before the inspector could say anything further Holmes ran off and climbed into the nearest cab and headed for the station.

Holmes sat back in the cab and thought carefully about all the information he had collected.

_Despite looking after himself Major Morrison has a heart attack._

_Sir Edward lied about being good friends with the Major. Why would he lie? What was his quarrel with the Major? _

_This Mary who worked for the Major and knew all three of the missing girls; where did she fit in and who was she working for? Were she and the other girls responsible for Anna Harris' disappearance?_

_The evidence seems to point to Sir Edward or his wife, as that was where Anna Harris was heading. So if it was them, what was the motive?_

He was so lost in his own thoughts that it took him a few minutes to realise that the cab had drawn to halt in the middle of a thin winding road. When he noticed that they weren't moving he leaned out the window and looked out at the driver.

"Hey," he said, "why have you stopped?"

The driver said nothing, merely sat there completely still, looking directly ahead of him, ignoring his fare.

Suddenly apprehensive Holmes climbed out of carriage. As he quickly took in the surroundings he realised that they weren't even en route to the station and his cab driver had taken him way off course. They were surrounded by nothing but fields and trees and there were no houses or any other signs of civilisation.

He looked up at the driver. He was sitting bolt upright in his chair, still ignoring Holmes as he tried to get his attention.

Holmes soon reasoned that he was in danger but his reasoning was just a fraction too slow, for as he was about to turn on his heels and run he felt something heavy being brought down on his head.

There was a loud crack and pain shot through him down his spine. The world rapidly went grey and shrank away as consciousness slipped away from him. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

_

* * *

_

Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people.

_AN: Thanks to my kind reviewers; such comfort for a green, young (sort of) newbie like myself. I wrote the rough version of this story a few years ago but when real life took over I forgot all about it. I found it last week on my computer and thought that I should probably post it on here. _

Chapter Five – Sinister

Watson was sat in his usual chair at 221b Baker Street where, on and off, he had been waiting for Holmes to return from Brighton. He was beginning to get impatient. He had talked with Captain Grey all morning and through most of the afternoon as well, agreeing to dine with his old friend; after all he knew that Holmes would be away and would not need him immediately. He had gained so much information on Sir Edward and his wife and he was aching to tell Holmes all about it, certain that it would help him solve everything. It was exciting to be so heavily involved for a change. His usual role was merely as an observer and eventually as a chronicler, but he was never usually involved in the investigative side at all. Watson thought that maybe all that would change now that he had proved he could be of help. The thought made him heady with delight

So when he had walked into the living room and found that Holmes was still absent he felt completely deflated.

Watson knew that it was in Holmes' nature to get so absorbed in his cases that he became unaware of everything around him. Watson often felt like it was a good job he was around to remind his friend to eat and drink while they were on cases, otherwise who knows what might have happened to him by now.

Deciding that the only thing he had left to do was sit and wait for Holmes, Watson made himself busy, first by properly writing up his notes from his conversation with George, then by settling down to read a book he had recently purchased.

Afternoon gave way to evening and as the light began to fade Watson was forced to either turn on the lamps or put his book away. He decided on the latter, as his eyes burned and his temples ached with the beginnings of a headache.

As he sat there in the dim half light of the evening he felt his stomach start to turn with the familiar sense of uneasiness. This new case was starting to appear very sinister. The things that George Grey had told him were still rolling around in his mind; his own imagination and medical training provided him with vivid images of those Indian girls who had been tortured. No matter how many times he tried to think about something else, these images would return and he suddenly envied Holmes' ability to be able to compartmentalise his brain and disregard any part he chose.

_Where is Holmes?_

Watson tried to eat something but found that his appetite had abandoned him. Through thinking about the case and anticipating Holmes' arrival back home, the doctor felt nervous and weary at the same time; his eyes stung and his shoulders felt unnaturally heavy. Night finally fell and as the heat seeped out of the air Watson closed the window and settled down on the comfortable settee. He had contemplated going to bed, but decided against it. He would be up when Holmes returned.

Watson's eyes began to flicker open and he became aware that the dark living room was suddenly much brighter. He awoke with a start, expecting to see Holmes in the room, lighting the lamps but he was startled when he realised that the bright light was in fact the early morning sun filtering through the windows.

"Doctor!" someone exclaimed and he whipped his head round, only to be faced with a disapproving look from their landlady who had just brought him up a breakfast tray. "Have you slept there all night?"

_I must have done,_ Watson thought to himself with fuzzy, morning logic. He was regretting it though, as his neck and shoulders ached and there was a throbbing in his temples as his headache from the night before worsened. "I was waiting up for Holmes," he said while he helped Mrs Hudson set the breakfast things on the table.

"Oh, Mr Holmes hasn't been back," she said with a blasé tone but that same stern look of disapproval she had favoured him with earlier.

She wasn't worried, but Watson was beginning to. That sense of uneasiness which had made his stomach churn the night before began to return and even the smell of Mrs Hudson's excellent cooking did not serve to sharpen his dull appetite.

_Where is he?_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes awoke only to find his world in darkness. As consciousness returned he became acutely aware of pain in his temples, at the backs of his eyes and at the back of head where he had been hit. He also realised that the room was totally dark in a way that had nothing to do with the time of the day. No, even the night-time had the moon to cast a friendly light over it. This room was unnaturally dark.

He was lying on his side on a remarkably soft single bed in a room that smelled musty and shut in. He noticed that his starched collar and tie had been removed as had his waistcoat and shoes, leaving him in merely his trousers, shirt and socks. Someone had taken the time to make him comfortable and to lay him on his side in case he vomited whilst unconscious. Who had done it though? What had happened?

Instinct made him sit up but as he moved he felt a hot shaft of pain shoot through his head, his vision went white and with a moan he collapsed on the bed. As the world spun around him he grasped his head hard to try and relieve the pain. The dizziness he felt made him queasy and when he felt his stomach lurch up he took a few deep breaths to stop himself from being sick.

He lay still, not daring to move a single muscle in case it sent that sharp pain through his head again. While lying there bits and pieces of what happened started to come back to him.

_The cab ride. The attack. Someone had found out that I was getting close to an answer. _

Holmes rubbed his eyes gently with the soft pads of his fingers in the hope of alleviating the dull ache he felt at the back of them. When he moved his hands away he noticed a light coming from one side of the room. As he looked over he saw that it was light from outside coming through the cracks in the door. It was an inviting yellow light, probably from a gas lamp but he couldn't be sure. There came the sound of footsteps and soon someone swung the door open. The light filtered into the room, illuminating his surroundings. He could finally see the room but apart from the bed and door, there was nothing to see. The walls were bare and the floor was merely indistinct grey stone. There was nothing more.

The person who entered was a young woman carrying a glass of clear liquid. She was small and just a little too plump for her height. She stood silhouetted in the light from outside, the darkness in the room hiding her face. She spoke with a soft, reassuring voice that would have been comforting had he not just been knocked unconscious, kidnapped and locked in dark room.

"Oh, you're awake," she stated. She moved further into the room. She was closer to him but between the dim light and his own unfocussed vision he couldn't really see what she looked like. "I brought you some water," she continued, holding up the glass.

He attempted sitting again but was rewarded by another bright flash of white behind his eyes and another wave of nausea.

"I'll leave it here for you," she said kindly and placed it on the floor beside the bed.

He wanted to say something to her. He wanted to ask who she was, _where he was_ and so much more, but before he could articulate anything she was gone. She shut the door behind her and turned the light outside off, plunging him back into darkness.

As he lay back in the blinding blackness he began to feel tired and he found that he was having more and more trouble keeping his eyes open. He must not fall asleep again!

_Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake,_ he thought desperately. _Think. You have to keep thinking. _His poor battered brain strained to focus on something as Holmes forced himself to stay conscious. _Think of...think of...Watson! Think of Watson._

* * *

Watson felt utterly useless. Holmes still had not returned and he was stuck back at their home in Baker Street with nothing to do but sit there and wait. The whole field of criminal investigation was still so new to him that he wouldn't even know where to begin his own line of inquiry.

He read over his notes a few more times but he could reason nothing more from them than he had already worked out. That Sir Edward Wells and his wife had a disturbing past and that 

Lady Wells seemed to be a magnet for young, well-to-do girls of Anna Harris' age. It all seemed very incriminating to him and if he was acting independently he probably would have handed this information to the police and let them follow through with the investigation. With the relationship that Holmes had with the police Watson knew that he wouldn't appreciate that course of action.

There was a knock on the door and as Watson looked up from his desk in stepped Inspector Lestrade.

Watson chuckled to himself at the coincidence, but his amusement seemed to unnerve Lestrade. "Inspector," Watson started to explain, "sorry, I was a little surprised to see you as I was just thinking about you."

The inspector regarded him suspiciously. "Oh?" he questioned, clearly fearing a secret joke at his expense.

"Never mind," Watson said. "What can I do for you, inspector?"

"Well I was hoping to speak to Mr Holmes," he replied. "Your landlady told me he wasn't here but said that you might know where he was."

Watson let out a weak, mirthless laugh. "Hardly," he answered. "I only know that he is in Brighton and has been since yesterday morning."

Lestrade looked at him blankly for a second then furrowed his brow in confusion. "I know he was there yesterday, I was with him until just before one o'clock when he told me he was leaving for London."

Watson felt himself go cold all over at Lestrade's information. If he was coming back to London then what had happened to him.

"He said he was coming back here?" Watson asked. Lestrade nodded.

"Yes, he said he had to leave for London," Lestrade answered, trying to remember Holmes' words as exactly as he could.

"Damn," he cursed, "I knew that something bad had happened!"

_And I've just been sat here while something awful might have happened to him._

"He may have changed his mind and gone back to see Mrs Harris," Lestrade suggested to try and console him. Watson said nothing in reply, simply sat there in silence as his mind conjured up a hundred horrible scenarios. The inspector sighed. "I'll telegram Mrs Harris and ask if she has seen him since yesterday morning." With that he left.

Watson heard the door shut. On any other day he may have felt guilty about his dismissive attitude towards the inspector, but he was too consumed with worry to feel any other emotion.

_Where is Holmes?_

* * *

_Watson,_ Holmes thought to himself, trying to stay awake, _John H...what does the 'H' stand for? I don't think he ever told me. _

His eyelids felt so heavy that he found it completely impossible to keep them open. _No!_ He blinked rapidly a few times and tried to focus his mind again. _Awake. Stay awake._

_Watson. He was stationed in Afghanistan...which isn't in India apparently...and he was shot in the shoulder at...he did tell me. I do know this. Maiwand! Stamford introduced us at Bart's..._

His thoughts were broken when the light from outside came on again and the door opened once more. In stepped a woman, a different woman from earlier. She was tall and very slim and, even though she was obscured by the darkness Holmes thought he recognised her vaguely.

"Mr Holmes," she said, "Henrietta told me you were awake." Her voice was deep and there was a lazy quality to it which made it sound rather drawling.

"Lady Wells," he greeted as he finally realised who she was.

"Well well Mr Holmes, you really are very clever," she said in something akin to delight. "It really is a pity, but you were getting a little too close."

"You overheard my conversation with the Harrises' staff." It wasn't a question. It was the only way she could have known that he was on their trail, after all she had been at the Harrises' house when he was investigating.

"Very good," she said and clapped patronisingly. "Very well deduced, Mr Holmes. You were getting very close to having real evidence against us and I'm afraid we couldn't let you tell your friend from Scotland Yard."

"Major Morrison found something out about you, didn't he?" Holmes asked. He felt more than a little ridiculous, confronting her whilst he was lying incapacitated and she was standing over him. "So you killed him."

"This is wonderful," Lady Wells announced with enthusiasm. "You actually know more than I gave you credit for." She leaned over and ran her index finger down his forehead. Her touch was light and her finger was cold against his hot skin. "Intelligence is a beautiful thing, Mr Holmes, but it's also a dangerous thing. For you anyway."

"So you're going to kill me then?" he asked, although he didn't need to. He just wanted to hear her say it.

He noticed that someone was behind her. A man, tall and burly stood in the doorway and as Lady Wells turned to him he handed her something. She turned back, item in hand and quickly placed it over Holmes' face. He instantly recognised the pungent smell of chloroform and he struggled against her, but he was weakened by his attack and she 

possessed a strength that surprised him. He felt everything around him become hazy and just before he fell into unconsciousness he heard her speak in a voice that sounded tinny and distant, like he was hearing it under water.

"Oh yes, Mr Holmes. We are going to kill you...eventually."


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

_AN: I should warn you that there is some violence in this chapter. Nothing too nasty but I thought you might like a heads-up._

Chapter Six – Blind

Holmes awoke in a far more uncomfortable position a few hours later. He was sat up in a hard, wooden chair which he seemed to be stuck to and he was completely blind thanks to the rough, dark cloth that was covering his eyes.

He could sense that there were others in the room. There was someone knelt beside him; he could feel the heat radiating from their body, he could hear the laboured breathing of a heavy smoker and he could smell the rich aroma of expensive cigarettes.

There was a sudden sharp pain in his wrist as something thin but strong was used to tie it down to the arm of the chair. The material bit into the soft flesh of his wrist as it was pulled tighter and tighter, cutting off the circulation. His other wrist had been bound while he was asleep and it had already gone numb with the lack of blood. Fear struck him and he struggled against his restraints. He knew it was useless but instinct had kicked in for a moment and had pushed logic to one side. The restraints dug further into his flesh and he felt the skin break in his right wrist. This made him stop struggling but as he sat back and accepted the reality of the situation he began to tremble uncontrollably. He was going to die in this chair. Sherlock Holmes was not ready to accept his fate so soon.

"Sir Edward?" he asked, reasoning that the man who smelled of expensive cigarettes would be someone of means and not a servant.

The man said nothing. He merely stood and, judging from his footsteps, which were heavy on the cold stone floor, he had moved to stand a few paces in front of him.

"I'm not sure you want to kill me," Holmes continued, trying to keep the trembling out of his voice. "If you just wanted to kill me, you would have done so by now. Keeping me here is dangerous."

Again, the man said nothing. Instead he began to move about and Holmes kept his sharp ears trained on the sound of his footfalls on the stone floor. He was circling him silently. Holmes assumed that he was trying to frighten him, to make him feel on edge.

_And it's working._

* * *

Inspector Lestrade sat at his desk in his office at Scotland Yard. It had been a long day and at five o'clock in the evening it was far from over. This was an important case and his every move was being scrutinised by the Chief Inspector, so taking his mind off it, even for a moment was not an option. The burden weighed heavy on his shoulders and by only the second day he was exhausted.

Most tragically of all, Lestrade had witnessed the evidence of his own inability to solve this case as they dragged Ethel Parkinson's body out from under West Pier. She had been horribly mutilated and beaten before she had found relief in death. He felt ill just thinking about it.

_It's a cool criminal who places the body in so public a place._

Now, to further complicate matters, Sherlock Holmes had vanished without a trace when Lestrade was most in need of his assistance.

He re-read the reply telegram from Mrs Harris, which informed him that Mr Holmes had not been back to the house.

Lord, his head hurt. And his neck. And his shoulders. He rubbed his temples slowly in circular motions and went through all the information in his head again for what felt like the hundredth time.

_Anna Harris disappeared on her way to see Lady Wells for a piano lesson. She never arrived. _

_Two days later three other girls from the village go missing. One of them has been murdered so surely the others will be murdered too. _

_The only common link between them is a girl called Mary who also worked for Major Morrison before he died._

The link was clear in his head, but he wasn't sure where Anna Harris fitted in to this chain. The mysterious Mary had left well before Mrs Harris and her family came to live at the house, so she would never have even met Anna Harris.

He had gone back to see Charlotte Harris' staff to get a description of this Mary person.

_Small, thin and pale with flaming red hair and bright green eyes,_ he read from his notebook.

It was a start. He felt an exasperated sigh escape his lips and he sat back in his chair. He hadn't slept well; not with the image of Ethel Parkinson appearing to him whenever he tried to sleep. His eyes were starting to burn and everything he looked at seemed to be blurry around the edges. His mind was too active. Every new piece of information seemed to shed a tiny bit more light on the problem but he was still blind to whole picture. For everything he had learned the answer to the main question burning in his brain was still eluding him.

_Why would someone even want to kidnap these girls? _

He was brought out of his thoughts by a knock on the door. "Come in," he said and was appalled at how weak and worn out his voice sounded.

The door opened and in walked Dr Watson looking exactly how Lestrade felt. The doctor was a handsome man, but almost no one looked attractive when they were worried.

"Any news?" Watson asked, choosing to forgo the usual polite greeting. Lestrade didn't care. Tired as he was, he was passed caring about the little formalities of life.

"I'm afraid Mrs Harris hasn't seen Mr Holmes since he left with me yesterday." The Doctor's shoulders sagged. Lestrade hadn't known the man for long, but his sympathy went out to him all the same. He could just image what a wonderful but exhausting life it must be for the man who was best friends with Sherlock Holmes.

"This case," Watson said with a shudder as he stepped further into the office and closed the door behind him.

"I know," Lestrade agreed as he rubbed his tired face with the palms of his hands. "It all seems so simple, yet at the same time I'm completely baffled."

The inspector looked at Watson carefully. His brow was furrowed and he could tell by the movement of his eyes that he was contemplating something serious.

He knew something.

_Damn it, if you know something tell me!_

"Inspector," Watson finally began, his tone hesitant, "there's something I think you should know about Sir Edward and his wife."

* * *

Holmes was still sat in the chair. By his own reckoning he had been sat there for half an hour and so far his captor had done nothing more than walk around. Sometimes he would circle him; sometimes Holmes would be able to feel his body heat as he stood right next to him. When he felt his breath across his face he realised that he must be watching him very closely.

He had attempted to talk to him again, but the man said nothing.

Holmes was beginning to get used to being in that chair. He had lost all the feeling in his hands and wrists so thin cord that bound them to the arms no longer hurt. His back hurt a bit from sitting so still in such an uncomfortable chair and his muscles ached from being so tense for so long.

Then, completely out of the blue, Holmes felt something heavy strike the side of his face. The pain and shock of this sudden violence made him cry out, which earned him another smack across his face.

Then nothing. No further blow came and Holmes was left sitting there breathless, his face throbbing with pain. The object had been blunt, but cold and heavy.

"Why," he started but he wasn't allowed to finish. Another blow came down and hit him dangerously close to his left eye and spots appeared behind his eyes, flashing bright in the darkness.

Before he could utter another word the heavy object smacked him in the stomach, knocking 

the wind out him completely. As instinct made him double over the felt the restraints cut deeper into his skin. He tried to hold back the yelp of pain but the room was so quiet that even the smallest of noises boomed out and echoed all around.

In response his captor brought the object down once more, knocking all consciousness from him.

* * *

"No wonder Holmes always solves these cases before I do," Lestrade said as Watson finished his story. "You two keep all the pertinent information to yourselves."

"I think it's Holmes' view that all the information is there to be gathered by anyone," Watson replied, leaping gallantly to the defence of his friend. "If you actually know what you're looking for."

Despite Mr Holmes' assessment of his abilities Lestrade was sharp enough to realise when he'd been insulted. He felt a tingle of anger in his chest but he ignored it, pushing any personal feelings away to the back of his mind. He fixed Watson with a cold, warning look but did not say anything. _I've been insulted by better men than you, doctor, _Lestrade thought acidly.

"So," Lestrade said, changing the subject, "the events that took place in Bengal are taking place again in Brighton."

"Have other girls gone missing?" Watson sounded shocked and his eyes widened in horror.

"Three girls disappeared a few days after Anna Harris. We found Miss Parkinson dead at three o'clock yesterday afternoon." Watson bowed his head in sympathy for the dead girl.

"Did they know Sir Edward or Lady Wells?" Watson asked. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.

"Not that we know of," he replied, "the only link we have between all three girls is another girl named Mary."

Lestrade watched as a mingled look of horror, fascination and excitement came over the doctor's face. "Mary?" he asked, making sure that he had heard correctly.

"Yes, Mary," Lestrade clarified. "Why?"

"One of the young women who left India with the Wellses was called Mary Sanderson." Watson had barely had time to finish his sentence before Lestrade was on his feet and searching through his official documents for a warrant request.

"We have to hurry," Lestrade said as he scribbled the relevant details on the request form, his hands shaking as his heart pounded furiously with nerves and excitement. "I don't want to be dragging any other bodies out of the Channel."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes awoke as he was being dropped onto the bed in the windowless little room he had been kept in. The blindfold had been removed but his vision was so blurred that he couldn't see properly anyway. The person who had put him there left swiftly, closing the door behind him. The light in the hallway was turned off again and Holmes was left as blind as he had been when he wore the blindfold.

He lay on the bed, the pain that had spread through his body leaving him incapable of moving about too much. Lady Wells had told him that they were going to kill him. So why hadn't they? The blows that Sir Edward had rained down on him would have been enough to kill him eventually, so why had he stopped short?

_I don't understand,_ he thought desperately to himself.

He found it hard to concentrate on any rational thought, between the pain and the raging thirst he felt. It was then that he remembered the glass of water that Henrietta had left for him. He groped around on the floor in the dark for the glass and when he found it he had to stop himself from downing the whole glass. He wasn't certain whether they would give him any more. After a few sips he put the glass down and lay back on the bed, exhausted.

He must have dozed off for a few minutes, for the next thing he knew the light from outside was back on and pouring in through the open door. He looked up at the silhouette of a young woman who was very dishevelled. He sat up quickly, ignoring the twinges of pain, not keen on being taken back to that room again, but as he went to say something she put her finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet. She shut the door and knelt beside him.

"I haven't got long," she whispered to him, "they'll realise that I'm gone soon. I came to bring you this." She pulled a large chunk of bread out of a pocket in her ragged dress and handed it to him. "You mustn't let them know you have it."

"Thank you. Are you Anna Harris?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, "I heard them bring you back. You lasted longer in there than Ethel did." She paused and he felt her cool hand against his forehead as she felt his temperature. "You're coping with it all much better than she did."

"Have you been here for over a week?"

"Yes," she said, "I'm in the next room, that's how I knew you were in here."

"Where are the other girls?" Holmes asked.

"In the room next to mine," she replied, "I'm afraid Ethel died two days ago."

He felt a momentary sadness, but he pushed it aside. It wasn't going to do him or her any good getting too emotional. "Why were you brought here?"

Anna paused for a few seconds then answered cautiously. "It's complicated. I can't quite explain it. They collect young women, they're like their followers. Like disciples of some horrible religion." Her voice cracked as she stifled a sob.

Holmes had a hundred more questions to ask but there was a noise down the corridor, one that sounded remarkably like a baby crying. Anna Harris gasped then stood quickly.

"I have to go," she said as she turned to leave. Before she left the room she turned back to him. "If they come back for you, pretend you're still unconscious. They won't take you unless you're awake."

Then, before he had time to say anything else she closed the door and he was left in darkness again. There was quite a bit of noise outside now. It seemed strange to him that he hadn't heard any noise before, but then he had spent the majority of his time there asleep.

He gratefully took a bite of the bread then did as she instructed and hid it under his pillow. As he lay back he realised that if Anna Harris had been able to get into his room, then maybe it wasn't guarded. Miss Harris knew where he was and where the other girls were, meaning that at certain times of the day she had been able to walk about freely. This all seemed rather promising.

He lay very still and listened out. For the first time he was glad of the darkness, as it made his hearing much more acute. His mind was definitely made up. The next time it went quiet he would make his attempt.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Chapter Seven – The Search

Watson was fidgeting impatiently in the cab, annoyed at how slow the public transport seemed when you were in a hurry to get anywhere. They were heading from the train station to the Wellses house, warrant in hand ready to search for the missing girls...and Mr Sherlock Holmes.

"We're nearly there, doctor," Lestrade said, trying to calm him down, but Watson could feel the tension in the inspector too. So they were both relieved when they pulled up outside the huge manor house and they practically ran up to the front door.

When the butler opened the door he was shocked to find them standing there, and even more shocked when he saw five police constables approaching the house as well.

"Can I help you?" he asked as calmly as he could manage.

"Is Sir Edward or Lady Wells here?" Lestrade asked as he pushed past the butler and stepped into the vast, echoing hallway.

Watson joined him and was just in time to see Lady Wells descending the stairs. She was the most beautiful woman that Watson had ever seen, but she was also the most terrifying, especially with her face contorted with anger at having the police turn up at her house.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked in outrage as the crowd of uniformed policemen pushed their way into the house, spreading out for their search.

"I have a warrant to search your house and grounds," Lestrade said, brandishing the official form. She snatched it from him and read it intently.

"You really think we had something to do with the disappearance of Anna Harris?" she asked with a convincing air of incredulity.

"And with the disappearance of Miss Carr and Miss Everidge and with the murder of Miss Parkinson," Lestrade clarified in a clear, confident voice.

"That is ridiculous," she announced, still looking about in horror as the constables buzzed about. "I didn't even know those girls."

"No," Watson piped up, "but your friend Mary knew them." Lady Wells regarded him coolly for a moment with sharp blue eyes. Watson felt uncomfortable under such scrutiny but he kept eye contact with her without flinching.

"Mary who?" she asked.

"Mary Sanderson, you should remember her," Watson replied, "she left India with you and she gives you her allowance every year."

"Oh, Mary," Lady Wells said with a fond smile. "She left suddenly. Moved all her things out and left. We haven't seen her for a year. Only my husband and I live here now...and our staff of course."

Two constables approached Watson and Lestrade. One of them was a large, well built man with a neatly trimmed beard; the other was a thinner, younger man with a pale smooth face and wide brown eyes. The younger constable had been brought down from London with them, the others were local. The inspector turned to them expectantly but they just shrugged.

"There's no one in the upstairs rooms, sir," the older constable said in a booming voice that matched his robust physique. "Only one of the bedrooms is made up, the others are empty."

"All right Laughton, thank you," Lestrade said with a sigh. "You and Simpson search the grounds."

Watson noticed that Lady Wells was wearing a smirk, something that served to make her seem even more unattractive.

"Is your husband at home, Lady Wells," Lestrade asked.

"No. _Sir_ Edward is in London on important and confidential business," Lady Wells answered condescendingly. "I'm sure you understand, _Mr_ Lestrade."

Watson felt outraged but Lestrade just smiled politely and nodded in understanding. When Lady Wells turned away the smile dropped from his face and his gaze hardened into a look of contempt. Watson thought that he would hate to receive such a look.

The search of the house proved fruitless. It took them an hour to make a thorough search of every room, including the servants' quarters and the empty stables outside. Watson and Lestrade stepped out into the front garden and both of them looked utterly defeated.

"I don't understand," Watson said, throwing his hands up in frustration. "They have to be involved. It's too big a coincidence."

"I agree," Lestrade replied matching the doctor's exasperation, "but you saw, there's nothing there."

The two of them made their way to the cab, which was waiting to take them back to the station. They stood there in silence, watching as a few of the constables searched the grounds in a rather lacklustre manner. Young Simpson was closest to them, trampling through a patch of foxgloves, scanning the ground with his eyes.

"He's new," Lestrade announced as they both watched him in a mixture of fascination and disbelief. "Gregson won't have anything to do with him, says he's an idiot." The young constable tripped over his own boot and crashed to the floor, disappearing behind the foxgloves. "He's right of course," he admitted with a sigh, "but he's very keen."

"Taken him under your wing, have you?" Watson asked, seeing humour in the situation even though he felt utterly despondent.

"I'll make a copper out of him if it kills me," he said. He watched as Simpson pulled himself up, his uniform covered in dust and his helmet askew on his head. "And it probably will kill me." He waited until Simpson recovered himself then decided to put the poor lad out of his misery. "All right Simpson!" he called over to him. "Round up the others, we're leaving."

"That's it then?" Watson asked.

"There's nothing here, doctor," the inspector replied. "There's no evidence that anyone was ever here."

Before they climbed into their cab they saw a distraught young man running up the path. Lestrade seemed to recognise him because he ran up to stop his progress towards the house.

"Mr Smith," Lestrade said as he stood in front of the young man. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard you were searching here!" he shouted, trying to push past the inspector, but by this time the constables had gathered to back him up. "They did it, didn't they?"

"Please, Mr Smith, calm down," Lestrade tried to placate him.

"They killed her, didn't they? Ethel, they killed her." He collapsed to his knees, his shoulders trembling as he sobbed.

"Mr Smith," Lestrade said, kneeling next him, "there's no one there. We have no evidence."

Carl Smith looked up at the inspector with bloodshot eyes. Watson felt his heart sink as he saw the grief etched out on the young man's handsome face.

"They killed her," he said. "I know they did."


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Chapter Eight – Flight

Holmes had been lying still on the bed for what felt like hours, listening intently to the noise outside the room. There was muffled conversation in voices that were distinctly female and there was a lot of bustling about, though none of it was clear enough to explain the purpose of this whole bizarre set up, with prisoners being kept in blackened rooms.

He drank a little more water and ate a little more bread, knowing that he would need as much strength as he could muster for his escape. The noise outside wasn't dying down at all. Time passed excruciatingly slowly and it all served to make him just that little bit more nervous than he already was.

He wished that he still had his pocket watch, just so he would at least be able to accurately measure the length of time he'd been suffering like this. Yet his watch was no doubt where ever his jacket, waistcoat and shoes were and he feared he had lost it for good.

He held his breath as he heard the sound of someone's footsteps on the stone floor outside his room. He closed his eyes and relaxed all the muscles in his body, making it look as though he was asleep and waited for the person to enter.

* * *

Watson had never felt so miserable in all his life. Even when he had been in critical condition in the hospital and had been told that his career as an army surgeon was over he did not feel as depressed as he did in that cab ride back to the station.

The sympathy he felt for the Harrises and poor Carl Smith was getting jumbled around with his own worry for Holmes' safety causing him to feel sick and dizzy with all the emotions. Suddenly all the other problems he had seemed to intensify as well. The wounds in his shoulder and leg seemed to ache just that little bit more than usual and he was beginning to feel weak and fatigued.

They had sent Carl Smith back home after assuring him that they were doing everything they possibly could to find out what had happened to Ethel Parkinson. He didn't know about Lestrade, but Watson believed that their best efforts had been pretty shoddy and he feared that Mr Smith thought so too.

He looked over at Inspector Lestrade who appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. Watson had expected him to have the look of a man who was utterly defeated, but he was pleased to see a look of grim determination set on his face instead. Holmes always said that the man had tenacity (a skill he credits most of the official force with), and Watson could see that Lestrade wasn't going to let go of this case without a good fight.

* * *

Holmes was greatly relieved when the person outside the door did not come into the room to 

collect him. All they did was stand outside for a moment then move back down the corridor. As he listened to the footsteps dying away he also realised that it was the only noise he could hear. All the chattering and bustling about from earlier had stopped and once the sound of the footsteps had gone he was left in complete silence.

He waited a few more moments to be sure that the person wasn't anywhere nearby and then immediately seized the opportunity. Ignoring the protestations of his aching muscles and sore head he got up from the bed and with a quick stride he was at the door, feeling around for it in the pitch black. He opened it slowly so it would not make a noise and peered around through the open door, listening carefully for any signs that someone was there.

He stepped out into the corridor, feeling the cold hard stone floor beneath his stocking feet. He saw the door to the room next to his, where Anna Harris said she was being kept; light was spilling out through the gaps.

As he opened this door and peered into the room he was confronted with the image of Anna Harris stood amongst four baby cribs. He looked around dumbly for a moment, taking in the odd sight of this dull, windowless nursery. Anna Harris was a pretty girl who looked so much like her mother that he'd have recognised her anywhere.

"Mr Holmes," she said breathlessly, "you scared me. I thought you were one of the girls coming back." She noticed him looking at the cribs. "They're asleep at the moment."

"Whose children are these?" he asked, gesturing towards the sleeping babies.

"The other girls'," she replied, "Mary, Nancy and Henrietta."

"Mary," Holmes whispered to himself, finally understanding the link between the Wellses and this girl Mary.

"Yes, these are their children," she paused and shuffled her feet, embarrassed by the conversation. "And from what I've heard, they're Sir Edward's as well."

Her words came as such as surprise to him that Holmes felt like they had smacked him across the face. "You mean, Sir Edward..." He couldn't complete the sentence, but luckily he didn't have to; young Anna understood.

"Yes, I've been told for the past week that one day it will be my privilege to have his children too," she said in a small voice and a shiver of disgust rippled through her.

"You can tell me about it when we get out of here," Holmes said, holding out his hand and gesturing towards the door with his head.

"There isn't any way out," she said, "I've looked dozens of times."

Holmes looked down at the young girl and found himself extremely impressed by her. After what she had been through, Holmes would have understood if she had gone completely hysterical through the fear. Yet she was standing before him, clearly scared and weary, but holding firmly on to her sanity. That strong, wilful, disobedient young lady that Charlotte Harris had complained about was a natural born survivor.

"Miss Harris, if we got in we can get out."

"I realise that," she said with a touch of irritation. "When the babies have their nap the girls leave me in charge of them while they go out. So after about the third time they did it I waited then tried to find the way out myself, but I couldn't it."

Holmes considered this for a moment but he wasn't about to give up. There had to be a way out, it stood to reason. "Come on," he said to her, holding out his hand once more for her. "We'll find it."

She smiled, finding comfort in his determination and she followed him out of the room. Anna lit the lamp in the corridor. For the first time Holmes saw the mysterious world outside his windowless room. The corridor walls were simple brick with no decoration save for the gas lamps dotted along them. It was narrow and dingy and smelled as shut in as his old room had.

"Where are we?" he asked, more to himself than to Anna.

"I don't know. I was unconscious when they brought me here," she replied and walked down the corridor after him. "Jane and Lucy are in here." She gestured to the next door they came to and Holmes opened it. As he looked in he saw the two occupants shrink away from the door in fear. Anna Harris pushed past him and entered the room, holding her hands out, indicating that there was no danger.

"It's all right," she said in a soothing voice, "this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He's here to help. This is Lucy and Jane." She pointed to each of the girl respectively

The two girls tentatively approached the door and Holmes was relieved to see that they appeared mostly uninjured; at least physically. They were both clearly frightened. Jane Carr, the taller of the two was deathly pale, her skin standing out in stark contrast to her black hair. Lucy Everidge had a small, healed cut on her plump bottom lip and her blue eyes were bloodshot from crying.

Holmes was about to usher them all out of the room when suddenly there was a commotion from the other end of the corridor. Startled Anna pushed the girls back into the dark bedroom. Holmes quickly turned the lamp off and joined the girls in the darkness. They stood there as silently, the only noise they could hear was the distant muffled arguing and their own breathing.

It was a man and a woman arguing. She was doing most of the shouting and as the quarrel got more and more heated, Holmes' keen ears could make out a few words.

"The police...they know...the house," was all he heard. He recognised the woman's voice. It was Lady Wells, although she sounded very different from the calm, ice cool woman who had promised to kill him. The pitch of her voice was higher than usual and there was a desperate urgency about it.

"Something's gone wrong," Anna Harris whispered to him.

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "I think the police might have found out about them."

The argument continued for a few more minutes and got louder and louder.

"We have to leave! They're not going to cover for us this time!" Lady Wells shouted.

"No!" came another voice that Holmes assumed was Sir Edward. He had been wondering what he sounded like. And what he looked like.

They heard Lady Wells shouting a little more, but they must have moved further away as they couldn't make out any of the words. Holmes was startled when he felt Anna Harris slip her small hand into his. Normally he would have shaken her off but he was overwhelmed by the desire to offer her any shred of comfort he could, so he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

The tender moment was shattered when they heard the loud pop of a pistol being fired. Once, twice, then silence. In the darkness, all that Holmes and the three girls could do was wait.

* * *

Watson and Lestrade stood at the train station in silence as they waited for the next train home. Watson had been toying with the idea of staying in Brighton as he didn't want to go all the way back to London without Holmes, but he had decided against it; after all what would he do? Where would he stay?

"They must be hiding them somewhere else," Watson said. Lestrade looked up at him both in sympathy and frustration.

"Yes, I agree," he said slowly and evenly, "but we have no evidence to suggest where that place might be."

Young Constable Simpson joined them on the platform holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose. He also had the beginnings of an impressive black eye.

"Good heavens, Simpson what have you done to yourself?" Lestrade asked. Watson nearly laughed at the rather high pitched sign of exasperation in Lestrade's voice.

"It was when I tripped, sir," Simpson explained, his reply muffled by the cloth he had over his face. "The floor was hard, you know, harder than usual."

"Harder than usual?" _What on Earth is the young man was drivelling on about?_

"Yes, it felt like a metal plate or something," he answered, lowering the handkerchief to reveal his swollen, blooded nose.

Watson and Lestrade both looked at each other as the answer suddenly hit them both at the same time. Watson ran to get a cab to take them back to the Wellses' house and Lestrade turned back to his callow young constable.

"And when were you going to tell us this little bit of information?" he asked sarcastically. Simpson mumbled an apology and looked down at his boots in shame. Lestrade rolled his 

eyes and sighed. "Well, don't just stand there, come and give us a hand."

* * *

Lady Wells had wasted no time in piling as many of her personal possessions onto the back of her carriage as she could manage alone. With her clothes packed and a substantial amount of money in her purse she climbed into the carriage and shouted for the driver to take her to station.

She felt a little more comfortable the further away from the house she got and as the carriage rattled down the familiar winding road towards the station she felt almost calm.

She was therefore shocked when her driver suddenly pulled the horses off the road and into the trees that lined it. She tried to look out of the window, but she was being juddered about so much that it was impossible.

With a jerk the carriage drew to a halt and, filled with rage and impatience, Lady Wells climbed out and onto the dense forest floor. "What the hell are you doing?" she shouted at her driver who dropped down from his seat on top of the carriage. As he turned, she realised that it wasn't her driver at all. It was a tall, handsome, sandy haired man who Lady Wells thought she recognised from the village. He was shaking with anger and his eyes glistened, giving him the look of a mad man.

"Sorry your ladyship," he said in a thick, regional accent. "But this is the end of the road for you."

* * *

Holmes stood in the dark room for about fifteen minutes, wanting to make sure that the shooter was not still hanging around. He listened intently for any noise from outside the room and when he heard none he decided to risk stepping out into the corridor.

"You stay here." He tried to let go of Anna Harris' hand but she held on firmly.

"I'm coming with you," she whispered, her voice full of childish determination.

"No, stay here," he whispered back, with just as much determination. She reluctantly let go of his hand and he made his way out of the door.

He lit the lamp then made his way silently down the corridor, actually glad that he had no shoes on as it made his tread much lighter. As he got towards the end of the long corridor he noticed that dark red blood had trickled out from under one of the doors and pooled on the stone floor outside. He opened the door gingerly and stepped in. The room was well lit and larger than the others but was still windowless. There were many items hanging on the wall, all of which looked distinctly unpleasant. There was an assortment of knives, ranging from small, delicate blades to large, razor sharp cleavers. There were ropes as well and various blunt instruments like hammers and cricket bats. Holmes looked at the thick heavy wooden stick hanging beside the hammers, which was covered in recently dried blood and he realised that he was looking at the object that had caused so much damage to his own face. It was the first on the wall, so evidently he would have had the others to look forward to. He felt a shudder pass through him as he glanced at the large meat cleaver at the end.

The familiar wooden chair was present too, pushed to one side of the room, its arms and legs worn away in some places where the restraints had been fastened and Holmes felt a twinge of pain in his wrists as he remembered that chair.

On the floor in the middle of the room was a large man, lying on his back with two gunshot wounds in his chest. He was ashen and his black eyes had the familiar glazed over look of death. For one terrible moment, Holmes found great delight in seeing his torturer lying in his own blood.

Holmes heard a gasp behind him, which drew his attention from the corpse and as he swung round he saw Anna Harris standing there looking at the body in wide eyed horror.

"Sir Edward," she said, covering her mouth with her hand. Holmes noticed that the bottom of her dress had been dragged through the blood and it had stained the blue material.

She didn't need to see anymore of that room. Holmes left it and shut the door behind him, then looked down at her in disapproval. "I thought I told you to stay in that room."

"And I told you I was coming with you," she said firmly, looking him straight in the eye. "Don't worry about me Mr Holmes," she continued, "I shan't lose any sleep over Sir Edward. Not after what he did to Ethel. And to you." She reached up and touched the angry bruise on his cheek. He flinched and she dropped her hand but continued to look defiantly up at him.

The look of disapproval faltered on his face as he was again struck by how brave this strange young girl was. He was still annoyed that she had disobeyed him though. He wasn't used to his instructions being ignored.

"Well come on then," he said impatiently and took off down the corridor again.

They walked on a little further and at the end of the corridor all there was only a solid brick wall. Holmes touched it with the palm of his hand and pushed gently, then harder, wondering if it was a false wall of some sort. It wasn't. It didn't move an inch.

"I told you," Anna said. "It's just a dead end."

Holmes looked at it in confusion and ran his hand over it lightly. He felt two long vertical grooves in the brickwork that he traced all the way down to the stone floor and back up. They went even further up towards the ceiling. "These were made by something being dragged up and down against the wall." Anna Harris watched his hands then followed his gaze towards the ceiling. They both saw a large iron plate that looked remarkably like a trap door.

"We're underground," she gasped in disbelief.

"That's why there are no windows," he said. "And that's why you were allowed to walk around freely," he added. "You wouldn't have been able to get out anyway." Holmes felt the tracks in the wall again. "They must have been made by a ladder of some sort. Lady Wells must have pulled it back when she left."

"Then how do we get out?" Anna asked. "It's too high for us to reach."

Holmes hadn't had long to think of an answer before he heard the door being opened and saw the amber of dying sunlight flood the dim corridor. He looked up and to his relief and amazement saw Watson standing there looking down at him with a matching look of relief.

"Holmes! Thank God!" he exclaimed, truly thankful to God that he had found Holmes alive.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Chapter Nine – Truth

A convoy of carriages carrying several police officers and three prisoners rattled down the road towards town and more specifically the local police station, where the prisoners would be held for questioning. These prisoners were three young women, including the mysterious Mary who had played such a part in the abduction of the three local girls. They had returned to their strange home only to find their children gone and the police waiting for them.

It was late now and the sun had disappeared from view completely, leaving them with only the moon and carriage lamps to light their progress. In such darkness they could be forgiven for not seeing the abandoned carriage in the forest by the side of the road.

* * *

Watson felt sleepy sitting in the dark, gently rocking carriage but he was kept awake by his racing mind and frantic heartbeat. The sheer excitement of the day had yet to wear off and he was aware that he was fidgeting.

Holmes, who was sat beside him, did not care as he was fast asleep. Watson looked over at his slumbering friend and examined him in the pale glow of the moonlight. His thin face was covered in livid, purple bruises, his bottom lip was split and there was a deep cut on his left eyebrow which would definitely need stitching. He also noticed the thin lacerations around his wrists, which had bled quite heavily a soaked the cuffs of his white shirt.

Whatever he had been through showed on his face and not just through his injuries. Even though he was in a deep sleep he occasionally squirmed in his seat as though he was struggling against an imaginary enemy and his eyebrows were knitted together in a look of discomfort, even pain. At one point during the journey he mumbled something incoherent in a voice that sounded almost panicked. Watson shushed him soothingly and soon his friend relaxed back into a calmer sleep.

* * *

Holmes awoke as the carriage ground to a halt. They had arrived at the police station and Captain and Mrs Harris were waiting for them. Watson thought the couple looked a lot older than the last time he had seen them; the lines of worry were so deeply etched on their faces.

As Constable Simpson helped young Anna Harris out of the carriage her mother ran to her and threw her arms round her, hugging her daughter tightly in relief. Holmes smiled to himself as he watched Anna stroke her mother's hair and whisper calming words of comfort as she sobbed on her daughter's shoulder. She was the stronger of the two. There weren't many Anna Harrises in the world.

Watson noticed Carl Smith was present too, standing beside a frail, gaunt lady. He embraced Jane Carr who was sobbing on his shoulder, mumbling apologies about Ethel. The young man shushed her and rubbed her back in soothing circular motions.

"Don't worry," he said. "They can't hurt you anymore."

Holmes did not wish to witness the affectionate displays of any more friends and family, so while no one was looking he slipped into the police station, unnoticed by his clients. Watson followed him, keen to get at that cut on his friend's right eyebrow

* * *

Inspector Lestrade walked across the station carefully, cup of hot tea in one hand and a case file under one arm. As he approached the small office where Miss Harris was sat with her parents ready to give a statement he noticed the gangly figure of Constable Harry Simpson lurking about. He was peering through the small window in the door with the look of a puppy dog that had just lost its owner.

"Don't you have work to do, Simpson?" The young man nearly jumped out of his uniform when he heard his voice.

"Sorry, sir, I...I was just..." his mouth worked for a few seconds but no words came out. He just stood there and his face got progressively redder as his embarrassment increased.

"All right, Simpson, get on with it then. Don't just stand there blushing like some silly school girl." Lestrade sounded harsh and disapproving but secretly he was having some fun at the young man's expense.

"Yes, sir," he replied glumly and with one last lovesick look through the window he shuffled off.

As he turned away Lestrade smothered a laugh then quickly schooled his expression into a serious look. "Oh and Simpson," he called to him along the corridor, "don't go too far. I'm sure Miss Harris and her parents would appreciate a police escort home."

Simpson's face broke into a wide smile and his brown eyes lit up. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

_But if you think a clever young thing like Anna Harris is going to fall for a flat-footed copper like you then you're a bigger idiot than Gregson thinks you are,_ Lestrade thought to himself as he watched him skip off. Still, stranger things have happened.

As he entered the office he saw that as well as the Harrises, Holmes and Watson were also sat there. The room was far too small to accommodate so many people, but that wasn't the inspector's biggest concern. He was concerned about Holmes. _He looks like death warmed up._ He wasn't surprised. He had seen that room of Sir Edward's.

"Here you are, Miss Harris," he said as he placed the cup of tea in front of the young girl. "Now," he continued and he sat down opposite her sandwiched between Holmes and Watson, "I'm Inspector Lestrade. I need you to tell me what happened."

Captain Harris squirmed in his chair. "Is that really necessary? Hasn't my daughter been through enough?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he replied, "I understand this is a distressing time and of course I don't want to cause you any further pain, but we need her to tell us what happened."

"Isn't it obvious what happened?" Mrs Harris piped up, her arms wrapped protectively around her daughter's shoulder. "You have the other girls."

"Yes, but your daughter's story is slightly different to theirs isn't it Anna?" Holmes looked directly at the young girl who simply stared back at him. She nodded.

"The other young ladies," Lestrade said in a gentle voice, "Mary and the others, they wanted you to be like them, didn't they?"

"Why don't you ask them?" Captain Harris stood and indicated to his wife that she should do the same. Holmes and Anna were still looking at each other, the other occupants of the room unaware of their silent dialogue. "We're taking our daughter home."

"The other girls have refused to tell us anything," Lestrade stated. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache brewing and his patience wearing thin. It had been a long, hectic day and he had started it after only three hours sleep.

Anna Harris shrugged her parents off and tore her gaze away from Holmes. She turned to Lestrade and looked at him with determination burning in her bright blue eyes. "I will tell you what happened."

"Anna, you don't have to," Captain Harris said to her as he sat back down beside his daughter.

"Yes, I do." Her words were simple but they held a wealth of meaning. She took a steadying breath then began her narrative. "I had been having piano lessons with Lady Wells. She was a good teacher really and I got on very well with Nancy, the lady she told me was her daughter. In between the lessons she would talk to me about other things. She would tell me how corrupt she thought society was and how unfair it was that women should be thought of as mere possessions, a way to acquire wealth or status. I agreed, but on that day...the day they abducted me she started to tell me how special her husband was. She was portraying him as some sort of Messiah and I was just...horrified, and I told her so, and I said I was going to leave. She got angry and she hit me and then told me that I couldn't go home, not now. She told me I would be one of them." Anna broke off and took a few deep breaths.

"You were taken to the bunker?" Lestrade asked while the young girl gathered her thoughts.

"I didn't know where I was," she answered. "They put something over my face and I fell asleep. When I woke up I was in a dark room with these other women standing over me. I thought they were going to kill me but they were actually very kind to me. They showed me their children and told me that they were the children of the future, that they were the children of humanity's saviour."

"What did they mean by this?"

"They meant that they were Sir Edward's children. They were convinced that he was some 

sort of saviour and that they were helping to make the world better. He's nothing of the sort." She squeezed her words through clenched teeth. "Every day they would tell me about all the things wrong with society and then they would preach to me how wonderful Sir Edward was. I played along as much as I could because I thought they would kill me if I didn't."

Lestrade sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment as he willed the pounding in his head to go away. He was listening to one of the most bizarre and sickening stories he'd ever heard and if he hadn't seen the evidence for himself he would have dismissed it as nonsense.

"You know Jane and Lucy quite well," Holmes stated, taking over for the moment. "Were you told about them?"

"Yes, Mary said she'd brought Sir Edward the girls he'd asked for. I asked what he needed them for but they wouldn't tell me, said that I would find out when I was officially one of them." She shivered at the prospect. "When the girls went out they left me in charge of the children; they told me I needed the practice. I was allowed to walk about freely, but I realised now that that was because I couldn't get out anyway. I went to see Jane and Lucy...and Ethel of course. They were terrified," her gaze went distant as she thought back on that day. "The others used to take them water, but they weren't allowed any food so I stole any scraps I could for them. Ethel was first. She was taken to a room and I would hear the screams. It got so bad that I had to cover my ears because I couldn't stand to hear it anymore. Ethel died after only a day."

When she stopped talking the silence that surrounded them was unbearable. The occupants of the room were so shocked that they were left lost for words. All eyes were fixed on the extraordinary woman before them who was gallantly fighting back her tears.

"I would rather have died than become one of those people." Captain Harris and his wife were both sat pale faced with horror by the time her daughter finished her terrible story, Mrs Harris had tears streaming down her cheeks, leaving tracks in her make-up.

"Thank you, Miss Harris," Lestrade said softly as he closed the case file.

* * *

Outside the station the sky had started to lighten as day approached. The Harrises stepped into the street glad to be out in the fresh air after being cooped up in that tiny office. Anna Harris noticed Jane and Lucy stepping into a cab and she smiled and nodded at them as they looked over at her. They smiled back and waved goodbye to her as the cab pulled away taking them back to their old lives. Anna wondered if any of them would ever be able to truly go back to their old lives.

Sherlock Holmes stepped out into the street after them, still dressed in only his shirt, socks and trousers. She pulled away from her parents and walked up to him, smiling warmly.

"Thank you for all your help, Mr Holmes." Holmes nodded in response, choosing not to comment on his part in her rescue. "I was going to say that I would write to you, but you don't seem like the sort of man that would appreciate personal correspondence." Her smile widened and Holmes thought that he saw a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. "Of course, if I 

see your name in the paper after you've solved some complex mystery I won't hesitate in writing to congratulate you." And without any further word she joined her parents.

"Mr Holmes." Holmes turned to see Constable Simpson holding out his missing clothing, including to Holmes' relief, his pocket watch. "We found these in one of those underground rooms."

"Thank you, Simpson," Holmes replied with a brief smile. Simpson then bounced off enthusiastically to catch up with the Harrises.

"Come on then, Holmes," Watson said as he helped his friend on with his jacket and shoes. "You need to get some sleep."

* * *

At eight o'clock, the local police arrived at a secluded spot in a forest to investigate the murder of Lady Eleanor Wells. Her carriage had been driven off the road and she had been shot in the head, chest and stomach.

She lay on the forest floor, her beautiful face destroyed by the force of the bullet, her soft hair matted with blood, dirt and leaves. The bags on the carriage had been ransacked and her purse had been rifled.

"The driver must have done it," Inspector Norden announced as he searched the empty carriage. "All of their staff has disappeared without a trace. She must have asked her driver to take her somewhere and he must have seized the opportunity to kill and rob her before he made his own escape. Do we know who he was?"

"No, sir," Constable Laughton answered. "They weren't local people and they all seemed to keep themselves to themselves."

"We'll have to make inquiries." Those were Norden's last words to his constable before he climbed in his own carriage and left the scene.

As Laughton looked a little closer at the body he noticed something that the inspector had missed. There was something in Lady Wells' left hand, something silvery. He carefully removed it from her cold, stiff fingers and held it up to examine it. It was a simple, rather cheap pendant necklace with a floral pattern on one side. As Laughton turned it over in his thick palm he saw there was something written on the back.

_To Ethel, with love._


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people._

Epilogue

Holmes and Watson walked along the pebbled Brighton beach. The salty sea breeze was cool against their skin and the sound of the gently rolling sea was relaxing, soothing. Neither of them had slept very well and they didn't believe they would until they were back in their familiar rooms in Baker Street. Holmes still looked ill, his face a mass of yellowing bruises and healing cuts. It went deeper than that though. There was a melancholy look in his eyes and Watson would often turn to find his friend frowning, like he was searching for some obscure truth.

"So how did you know that Sir Edward and his wife were involved?" Watson asked, drawing Holmes away from his own thoughts.

"It was obvious that they played some part in it, after all Anna Harris hadn't had time to meet any other people in that area. Then I remembered vaguely, reading something about Sir Edward being involved with the tea gardens in India. Then when Mrs Harris told me that her uncle was stationed in Bengal to protect British interests I realised that Sir Edward and Major Morrison may have met out there." He stopped and bent to pick a pebble up. He turned it over in his hand and he ran his fingers over the smooth surface of it.

"There were too many coincidences," Watson stated, seeing his friend's line of reasoning.

"Precisely. I questioned the staff about the relationship between the Major and Sir Edward and they said there was tension between the two. Then when they told me that Major Morrison was a man who was trying his best to look after his health I began to suspect foul play."

"You think they murdered Major Morrison?" Watson's head began to hurt. "Because he knew too much about them?"

"Yes," Holmes answered. "Mary, one of Sir Edward's young women, got a job as a scullery maid there. I have no doubt that while she was there she managed to lace the Major's healthy food."

"Some sort of poison you mean?"

Holmes smiled down at him and Watson could tell that he was feeling rather pleased with himself. "I don't suppose you noticed all the flowers in Wells' garden?"

"I did actually. They were foxgloves. Though, young Simpson got a closer look at them." Watson chuckled as he replayed the constable's fall in his head. "Lucky really, that's how we found out where you were."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you the danger of consuming foxgloves," Holmes said. He examined the smooth brown pebble for a moment then put it in his pocket.

"No, it's digitalis. Speeds up the heart." It dawned on Watson. "His death would have 

looked like a mere heart attack."

"Exacty." Holmes stopped walking and looked out at the Channel. The two men watched as the sea lapped against the support posts of West Pier where Ethel Parkinson's body had been found.

"What will happen to the Mary, Henrietta and Nancy?"

Holmes shrugged. "It depends how a jury sees it. They'll be charged as accessories."

"What will happen to their children if they go to prison?"

"Probably best not to think of that, Watson." But Watson couldn't help but think about it. Another four lives ruined by the madness of one man.

"I don't understand, Watson." Holmes said after a brief pause.

"Understand what?"

"Why he did it." Holmes continued to stare at the water; he liked the steady rhythmic crashing and drawing back of the tide, it was beautiful and natural, unlike the events of the past few days. "I've seen many murderers, but all of them had some sort of purpose. Granted, it may have been a petty one like money or jealousy, but there was a reason for their crimes. Sir Edward tortured and killed for no reason. Almost as though he did it for fun."

"There are such people I believe," Watson replied with a sigh. "Sir Edward was a sick man. Take that Messiah stuff for instance."

"You think he believed that?" Holmes sounded sceptical.

"No, I think he liked having power over those women. They took impressionable young girls and twisted their minds to suit their own purpose. Plus he got their allowance as well, so there's a motive for you."

Holmes shook his head and sneered. "No, that was her. She indulged his madness while it suited her. She didn't care about those girls."

"There are records of people who seem to have no conscience," Watson said. "It's quite a phenomenon."

"The human mind is still such a mystery to us," Holmes announced with a gentle sigh and looked back at his friend with a smile.

Watson smiled back. "You'd make an interesting case study yourself." Holmes let out a small chuckle and Watson was relieved to see that melancholy look fade for just a moment.

Holmes turned and carried on walking down the beach. "This is one case I will not mourn the loss of."

As the two of them walked along off along the beach in silence Watson had time to reflect on 

everything that had happened. Perhaps Holmes would finally realise that there were worse things in the world than boredom, although somehow Watson doubted it.

"_This is one case I will not mourn the loss of."_ The words echoed in Watson's head and he realised there and then that this was one case that would not make it into the archives.

* * *

_So it's over. This story has finally seen the light of day! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it and thanks to everyone who reviewed so far. I'm actually rather sad that it has finished._

_I have some ideas for future stories but I'll have to give them a bit more thought. _

_Thanks again._


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